


2016 Fictober Drabbles

by sunflowerseedsandscience



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8261437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseedsandscience/pseuds/sunflowerseedsandscience
Summary: Because there's not always enough time in the day for more than a couple of paragraphs.





	1. Chapter 1

Prompt from tumblr user Kateyes224: Horoscope, excessive, drowsy.

\------------

He lets himself into her apartment without knocking, the morning edition of The Washington Post tucked under his arm. Her living room is empty; down the hallway, he can see that her bedroom door is standing open. He hovers by the front door, deliberating silently for a moment; then, with a decisive nod, he throws his keys down on the kitchen table (nice and loud, so she’ll hear them), crosses to the couch, and sinks down onto it. He kicks off his shoes, props his feet up on her coffee table, and opens his newspaper.

As he could have predicted, it takes less than a minute.

“Mulder, what are you doing here?” Scully is walking slowly into the living room, squinting at him in confusion as she ties her bathrobe closed. 

“Oh, hey, Scully,” Mulder says, glancing up briefly from his newspaper, doing his best to feign total unconcern. He takes note of her pale complexion, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hair hangs limp and lusterless around her too-thin face… but he keeps his expression under rigid control. 

God, but she looks terrible.

“Answer the question, Mulder. What are you doing in my apartment? Why aren’t you at work?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he says. “Three days off in a row, Scully? Doesn’t that seem a bit excessive for someone who didn’t even take time off for the death of a parent?” She narrows her eyes at him.

“I’ve been having headaches,” she says. “Worse than before.”

“I thought your doctor prescribed something for the headaches.”

“He did. It makes me too drowsy to function.” Scully crosses her arms protectively across her chest. “What are you doing here, Mulder? Does Skinner know you’re not in the office?”

“Yup.”

“And he’s not angry with you for skipping work?”

“I think he’s relieved, actually. I get into far less trouble when you’re there to keep me in check.” He lowers his paper, finally, and looks up at her. “Scully, have you been home for three days because of headaches? Or have you been avoiding me for three days because of what happened at the end of the Spuller case?” She looks away, biting her lower lip. “Look, Scully, I know I owe you an apology. Even just implying that you were working against me… I was way out of line, Scully. I’m sorry.” She looks back at him, holding his gaze, still worrying her lip between her teeth… and finally, she nods shortly.

“Thank you.”

“But I also think- and I know you’re gonna fight me on this- that you owe me an apology, too.” She opens her mouth to respond, and he holds up a hand, forestalling her. “The only reason I can think of for you not to have told me what you saw is that you don’t trust me,” he says. “And I’d like to think… after what we’ve been through, especially since your diagnosis… Scully, I’d like to think I’ve earned your trust.” Scully sinks down onto the sofa next to him with a sigh.

“You have,” she says quietly. “And I _do_ trust you, Mulder. I didn’t tell you what I saw because….” Her voice trails off. She twists her hands together in her lap, and Mulder reaches out and takes one of them in his own. She looks up at him. “Because I didn’t want to have seen it. Because I don’t want it to be true.” 

“Because you’re afraid.” She nods slowly.

“Because I’m afraid.” He lets go of her hand, sliding his arm around her shoulders instead, and pulls her to lean against him. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“For being honest with me. For trusting me.” She rests her head on his shoulder.

“Thank you for being here,” she says.

“I’ll always be here, Scully,” he says. “Whenever you need me.” He looks down at her. “Just remember that you can always ask, okay?” She smiles weakly.

“I’m not good at asking for help,” she admits, and he laughs.

“The understatement of the century,” he says, and she swats his leg playfully. She nods at his folded newspaper.

“Anything good in there?” she asks.

“Nah, not really,” he says. “Hey, you want your horoscope?” She rolls her eyes.

“Give me a break, Mulder,” she groans. He grabs the paper and shakes it open.

“Hey, come on,” he protests. “Mine was pretty accurate. Listen to it: ‘Today will bring reconciliation and new hope, if you can leave yourself open to it. With a willing heart and a friendly ear, no gap is too great to be bridged.’ That’s pretty spot-on, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” she huffs. “What’s it say for Pisces?”

“’Today will be full of signs and affirmations that you are on the right path. You’re chin-deep in dangerous waters now, but as long as you keep your head up and your friends close, you’ll come through it unscathed, that much stronger for having survived the journey.’”

They’re both silent for a moment.

“I don’t know about the ‘unscathed’ part,” says Scully quietly, taking Mulder’s hand and squeezing it, “but I’m glad I’ve got you close.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Mulder notices, when he lets himself back into the house after his run, is the smoke. A thin white mist hangs in the air in the living room, growing thicker as he nears the kitchen, but there’s no smell of burning. In fact... Mulder takes a breath through his mouth and discovers that the smoke actually tastes... _sweet_. Completely mystified, he enters the kitchen.

Scully is standing at the kitchen table, surrounded by plastic bowls of a strange, multicolored goop, as well as several opened bags of powdered sugar. A number of spatulas lie discarded nearby, dripping sticky whiteness all over the wood of the table. Scully’s arms are buried to the elbows in the bowl directly in front of her, which contains a large mass of orange sludge. Clumps of powdered sugar lie on its surface, and Scully appears to be trying to mix it in by hand.

“Scully?” he asks tentatively. She’s wearing an expression that suggests that, whatever she’s trying to do, it’s not going well for her.

“Mmm?” She doesn’t look up.

“Uh... what is all that?”

“It’s fondant,” she says.

“Fondant?” he asks. The word’s vaguely familiar, but it’s not really ringing any bells. “What’s that?”

“You roll it out into sheets and spread it on a cake,” she explains. “William wants Nemo on his birthday cake this year.” Mulder peers into the bowl.

“Looks a little sticky to roll into sheets,” he comments.

“It’s not done yet, Mulder,” Scully huffs. “You have to keep mixing powdered sugar into it until it gets really firm and stiff.” Mulder bites back a comment about how she doesn’t need powdered sugar to make _him_ firm and stiff- she doesn’t look as though she’d be likely to laugh just now. “I found a picture of a really cute cake online, and then I found this tutorial on how to make your own fondant out of melted marshmallows.”

“So... this fondant stuff... it’s something you can buy in stores? Like, you don’t have to make it on your own?”

“You can, but the store-bought kind is made from gelatin and doesn’t taste very good,” she says. “The website says this version tastes just like marshmallows.”

“And what’s wrong with just using orange and white icing?”

“This will look neater, cleaner,” she says. “More professional.” Mulder raises his eyebrows.

“You know, if you wanted a professional cake, Scully, we could have just ordered one from the bakery,” he comments. 

“Yes, Mulder, I realize that,” snaps Scully, lifting her hands from the bowl and attempting to scrape some of the orange goop off of her palms. “But I wanted to do this for William myself, okay?” Mulder holds his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I just wondered... what brought this on? A store-bought cake’s been fine every year so far.”

“I just....” Scully sinks into one of the kitchen chairs. “Mom sent photos of my nephew Matthew’s birthday party,” she says. “Tara made this amazing Captain America cake, and little matching cupcakes with the shield on them, and it was just so....” She sighs. “It made me realize I never do that kind of stuff for Will. I’m always too busy.”

“And you think he’s going to resent you because his cake for his fifth birthday party came from Gianelli’s Bakery and wasn’t covered in melted marshmallow goop?” Scully smiles wanly.

“Well, when you put it that way....” Mulder smiles, shaking his head, and sits in the chair next to her (making sure it’s marshmallow-free first).

“I’m pretty sure William looks at you and sees Superwoman,” he says, stroking her shoulder. “Whether or not you baked his birthday cake yourself is probably the furthest thing from his mind. He already thinks you’re amazing.” Mulder leans over and kisses her powdered sugar-dusted cheek. “And so do I.” She ducks her shoulders and blushes. “So... you want me to help you finish this? I have no idea what to do, but if you show me....”

“No, let’s just forget about it,” she sighs, shoving the bowl away. “I have no idea what I’m doing wrong. I keep mixing in more and more powdered sugar and it just gets stickier, but nowhere near the consistency the recipe says it should be.” She inspects her orange-coated fingertips. “And it never occurred to me to trim my nails before I started, and now there’s so much marshmallow under them, they’re going to be sticky for _weeks_.” Mulder tsks sympathetically.

“And we all know how much you _hate_ to have anything happen to your nails,” he says with a playful smile. Scully gives him a death glare; then, quite suddenly, she dips her hand into the bowl and rubs a huge, dripping handful of orange into his hair. He jumps back with a yelp. “Hey!”

“And we all know how much _you_ hate to have anything happen to your hair,” she says, smirking. Quick as a flash, Mulder swipes at the bowl, and suddenly, Scully’s got a matching orange streak in her own hair. “ _Mulder!!_ ”

“What?” he asks innocently. He sucks a fingertip. “Tastes pretty good. And relax, it’ll come right out in the shower.”

“I already took a shower today, Mulder!” she says.

“Well,” he purrs, waggling his eyebrows, “looks like you’ll need another one.”


	3. Chapter 3

Scully can’t find the evidence vial _anywhere._

It’s a small vial, containing a pinch of ashy soil taken from a forest floor in West Virginia, in an area where there had been multiple reports of UFO sightings in the past month. Mulder had scooped the soil into the vial and tucked it into his pocket two days ago, and then had deposited it on his desk upon their return to the office. The soil had resembled some that they’d seen in Oregon, on their very first case together, and Mulder had wanted Scully to compare the samples.

The trouble is, the vial is now missing in action.

Scully knows she’s seen it yesterday, on Mulder’s desk in the same spot he’d left it, and she’s kicking herself for not putting it somewhere safer before something happened to it. Mulder’s in a meeting with Skinner, Scully has no idea how long it will take, and she really wants to get the samples up to the lab and compare them before he gets back. Otherwise, he’ll insist on accompanying her, and he’ll be breathing down her neck the whole time.

Scully has sorted through the mess on top of the desk, hoping the vial has just rolled under a stray newspaper clipping, but so far, no luck. She opens the top center drawer, sifting through pencils with broken points, sunflower seed husks, and broken strips of staples, but it’s not there, either. Nor is it in either of the upper drawers on the side, or the bottom left drawer.

Sitting back in Mulder’s desk chair, Scully’s gaze is unwittingly drawn to the bottom right drawer, the one she never opens, because she knows exactly what’s inside. She knows Mulder had been alone in the office after she’d gone home last night, and she doesn’t know how late he stayed. He’d called her before she’d gone to sleep, of course, but that hadn’t been until midnight... is it possible that, after she’d left, he’d taken a video out, and maybe knocked the vial into the drawer while he was... busy?

She doesn’t want to open the drawer, but she’s looked quite literally everywhere else in the office... and so, reluctantly, she slides it open and begins to sift through the contents, doing her level best to ignore the images on the covers of the many VHS tapes piled inside. But after a moment, she can’t help but look... because a rather startling detail suddenly catches her attention.

The last time she’d opened this drawer had been during their first months as partners, when she’d needed to put away a tape Mulder had left in the office VCR. Then, she’d been amused by the sheer size of his selection, as well as the variety. The women on the covers of the tapes had been of all different builds, and had boasted a full spectrum of hair colors. She remembers thinking to herself that Mulder must have been a man of varied tastes, and had then shut the drawer, vowing not to think of it again, for professionalism’s sake.

Now, as she moves the tapes to the side, searching for the evidence vial, she notices that his collection seems to have developed a theme. Gone are the blonde bombshells, the raven-haired beauties, the heavy-chested brunettes.

Every single one of these tapes now features a redhead.

The moment Scully realizes this, she slams the drawer shut and sits up straight in the desk chair, her face bright red. She tries to come up with a reason, any reason- other than the most obvious one- why Mulder’s replaced his old tapes with six volumes of “Raucous and Randy Redhead House Party.” Yes, she’s seen him looking at her, more frequently as the years have passed, but she’s usually assumed it was simply because she was always _there_ , always available for him to look at.

But to fantasize about? It looks that way.

She’s still puzzling out how she feels about this when the office door flies open and Mulder strides in. She prays the blush has faded from her face as he grins down at her.

“Stealing my spot, Scully?” he asks.

“N-no, I was just....” It actually takes her a moment to remember what she’d been doing when she’d made her discovery. “I was trying to find the vial of soil so I could take it up to the lab. Did you move it somewhere?” He grins more broadly and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing the vial.

“I figured you’d try to sneak off to the lab without me if I left it behind,” he says. Scully stands, reaching out and snatching the vial out of Mulder’s hands.

“That’s because you’re incorrigible when I’m trying to do anything in the lab, Mulder,” she says. “You’re always looking over my shoulder like you don’t trust me to get it right.”

“Of course I trust you, Scully,” he says. “I’m just impatient, that’s all.” His face suddenly grows serious. “You didn’t look through my _whole_ desk, did you?” She feels the flush beginning to creep up her neck again. She hopes to God he’ll assume it’s because of the _idea_ of what’s in that drawer, and not because she now knows the specific contents.

“No, of course not,” she lies, not meeting his eyes. “I’m not looking to borrow any of your ‘entertainment’ materials, Mulder.” He gives her a lopsided grin.

“Well, you let me know if you change your mind,” he says. “Maybe I can make a recommendation.” Scully briefly considers asking him to open the drawer so she can peruse his collection and choose something herself... but no, neither of them is ready for the conversation that _that_ would inevitably start. She walks out from behind the desk, opens the filing cabinet, and retrieves another vial of soil from one of the folders.

“Come on, Mulder,” she says, tucking both vials into her pocket. “If you can promise to sit nicely and quietly while I study these samples, I’ll buy you lunch.”


	4. Chapter 4

She’s been up the entire night, but it hasn’t been to feed or settle William. He’s been sleeping through the night for months, earlier than she’d had any right to expect. Her mother had complained, more than once, of how unfair it was that Scully, who had woken up every three hours like clockwork until she’d been eleven months old, had been blessed with a child who’d stopped needing nighttime feedings by six months.

 

Now, she wishes that she could somehow have all those missed nighttime nursing sessions retroactively. She wants to regain the hours she’s missed in the past, inadequate insulation against the years she’ll be missing in the future. She’d go back and sit awake nursing him, walking him up and down her apartment, soothing him, foregoing sleep entirely, if it meant just a little more time.

This night has been spent in silence, standing above his crib, watching him sleep. For hours now, she’s been fighting off the urge to hold him, to wake him up, to entice as many gummy baby smiles out of him as she can before the sun comes up, before his gurgling laughs become the high point of somebody else’s day. But she’s resisted, so far, reminding herself that tomorrow will be a very long, very busy, and very confusing day for him, and he will need his rest.

As the clock edges closer to five AM, she sets about gathering up the items she’ll need to pack in his diaper bag. She’s been told not to pack more than one or two changes of clothing- there are apparently clothes waiting for him already at the other end of his journey- but she’s a die-hard planner, she always has been, and her thoughts now stray to delayed and cancelled flights, to broken-down cars and impromptu motel stops far from the nearest clothing store, and so she can’t help stuffing a few more outfits into the diaper bag than could be considered necessary.

She does not pack the “Mommy’s little man” onesie Maggie gave William for Christmas. She knows it’s petty, but right now, she doesn’t care.

Scully thinks carefully about what to dress him in when he wakes up. She’d done laundry just two days prior, so she has nearly his full wardrobe to choose from. She sorts through the stacks of long-sleeved onesies... and her fingers come to rest on one he’s never worn yet, because he’s only just gotten big enough to fit into it.

It had arrived in the mail about a month ago. No return address on the padded envelope, no note, but still, she’d known who it was from the moment she’d unfolded it and seen the picture on the chest. Who else in the world would have anonymously mailed her son a UFO onesie?

 _Their_ son. He’d sent it to _their_ son. 

She lifts the onesie out of the drawer, finds a pair of pants and some socks to match, and lays them on the changing table. She goes into the living room to retrieve the diaper bag from the coffee table... and as she stands there, she can’t help but look longingly at the front door. If this were a movie, this would be the moment he would come striding in to save the day, to wrap them in his protecting embrace and whisk them out of harm’s way. But the door stays heartlessly shut, the hallway on the other side pitilessly empty. He has no way of knowing what has happened, what will happen in a few hours.

When William wakes, an hour later, and has been fed, Scully dresses him in the UFO onesie, being careful not to let him see how she is breaking apart inside. Children can sense their parents’ pain, she knows they can, and she wants his final impressions of her to be full of nothing but love.  
She will send him to safety wrapped in his father’s love, and surrounded by the memory of her love. It is the best that she knows how to do.


	5. Chapter 5

The first day of snow had been exciting, a novelty after so many years of criss-crossing the hot, dry, sparsely-populated southwest. They had stood together on the porch, watching it fall, wrapped in warm, down-filled parkas they’d bought second-hand when they’d suddenly realized they had almost nothing in their wardrobes to get them through their first winter in the new house.

“You still going to try to make it to the hospital today?” Mulder had asked her hopefully.

“I have to,” Scully had sighed. “I can’t miss even one day of this residency, Mulder. It’s tough enough to keep up as it is, after so much time away.” He’d nodded understandingly.

“Be careful driving,” he’d said. “We’re out of practice dealing with weather like this.” She’d promised to be as cautious as possible... but still, he’d felt on edge all day while she’d been gone, unable to truly relax until she’d returned, carrying bags of just-in-case groceries she’d picked up on her way home.

“In case we can’t get to the store for a few days,” she’d said. “I heard it’s supposed to get much worse.” They’d made dinner together, spaghetti with garlic bread, and had eaten it on the rug in front of the blazing fireplace. They hadn’t quite managed to move the plates to safety before falling into each other’s arms, and it hadn’t been until they’d finished making love that they’d noticed that, at some point, they’d rolled right into their leftover dinner.

“Spaghetti sauce in my hair,” Scully had mused, shaking her head. “That’s a sexual side effect I’ve never experienced before.”

“Well, you know me, Scully,” Mulder had said. “I like to broaden your horizons whenever possible.”

 

\-----------

 

The second day of snow had been a minor inconvenience- to Scully, at least. Mulder had found it a blessing in disguise. The morning news had made it perfectly clear that it would have been madness for Scully to try driving to the hospital, and so she’d stayed home, much to Mulder’s delight. They’d gone back to bed, burrowing under the down comforter together, watching the snow fall outside the frost-dusted windowpanes.

Later, they’d donned their new-old parkas and secondhand boots, and had gone for a walk along the perimeter of the property, down to the frozen-over lake. They’d tried to build a snowman, but neither of them had gotten around to buying mittens yet- this snowstorm had come early in the year and they’d thought they would have more time- and their fingertips had frozen blue within minutes.

“Too bad we can’t have a snowball fight,” Mulder had sighed.

“Why, because you know I’d kick your ass?” Scully had asked. Mulder had studied his hands intently. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out just how long I can expose my skin to this weather without risking frostbite,” he’d replied, grinning. He’d stooped to scoop a handful of snow, packing it into a ball. “I’m fairly confident it’ll be long enough to prove you wrong.” 

“Don’t you dare,” she’d warned him- but, of course, he hadn’t listened. He’s made a career of of ignoring her warnings by now.

By the time they’d finished, neither of them had been able to feel their hands below the wrists, and several hours by the fire had been required before they’d regained enough manual dexterity to even think about preparing lunch.

Scully had, predictably, won the snowball fight, so Mulder had done the cooking.

 

\-----------

 

Now, it’s the third day, and at approximately eleven o’clock in the morning, the snowstorm had finally crossed the line from “slight, but ultimately enjoyable inconvenience” to “massive problem.”

That had been the point at which the power had gone out.

Mulder had immediately built a fire, but the warmth doesn’t permeate very far into the room. Scully retrieves the down comforter from their bedroom upstairs, along with all four of the sweaters they currently own between them.

“The first thing we’re doing, when the weather breaks,” she says, teeth chattering as she pulls one sweater on atop the other, “is going shopping for winter clothes.” She scoots closer to Mulder on the couch, which they’ve dragged as close to the fireplace as Scully considers to be safe. She shakes out the comforter and drapes it over both of their shoulders. “And we’re buying more blankets.” Mulder suddenly sits up straight, remembering something, and jumps off of the couch, heading for the stairs. “Hey, get back here!” protests Scully, shivering at the loss of his warmth.

“Wait a second, I just thought of something!” Mulder calls over his shoulder as he pounds up the stairs. Scully hears him throwing open the door of the second bedroom, which they’re currently using as storage space for the various remnants of their life on the road- mainly summer clothing and camping gear. He comes back downstairs, and before Scully can turn to see what it is he’s remembered, she’s hit in the back of the head by a large, plush object.

“Ouch! Mulder, what the hell?” The object bounces into her lap and rolls onto the floor in front of the couch. It’s joined by a second, identical object, and by then, Scully’s recognized what they are.

Sleeping bags.

She turns back to look at Mulder, who’s beaming.

“It’s raining sleeping bags, Scully!” he pronounces. She narrows her eyes at him.

“Mulder, if you think for one second that you’re going to convince me to remove even one article of clothing, you’re crazy.”

“I’ve been called that before, Scully,” he replies, coming around the couch and unrolling one of the sleeping bags in front of the fireplace. “Usually by you... usually right before I turn out to be right.” He unrolls the second sleeping bag, unzips it completely, and lays it like a blanket over the first one. Then he sits back and looks up at her invitingly. “Come on, Scully,” he says. “What else have we got to do with the afternoon?” He’s already stripping off his sweater and jeans, climbing into the sleeping bag and holding the flap open for her.

“Stave off hypothermia, that’s what,” says Scully. “Which is probably best done with our clothes on.”

“Come down here with me,” says Mulder, reaching for her leg and sliding his fingers up under the hem of her pants, onto her calf. “I bet you a week’s worth of home-cooked dinners that I can keep you warmer without clothes than you are right now _with_ them.”

As it happens, he’s right.

By the time the power comes back on, hours later, they're so overheated that they actually have to turn the heat off while they cool down.

Scully cooks dinner for the rest of the week.


	6. Chapter 6

Scully wakes as though she’s surfacing from the bottom of a murky pool, the world around her growing slowly brighter by degrees, until it coalesces into a solid picture that she can make some sense of. The harsh lighting, water-stained drop ceiling, and uncomfortable bed add up to only one possible conclusion: she’s in the hospital. For the second time in less than a week. But in contrast to Friday’s visit for her bi-weekly chemotherapy session, this visit is wholly unscheduled.

“Hey.” There’s a soft voice to her right. “You awake?” She rolls her head to the side, but even that small motion makes the world around her tilt nauseatingly, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “Whoa, take it easy, Scully. You took a pretty big spill.” Big spill? It takes a moment to come back to her... but when it does, she groans. Ah, yes, her stunning little bit of performance art in the hallway of the Hoover Building. “Stubborn Woman Refuses All Offers of Help and Pays the Consequences: A Melodrama in One (Very Brief) Act.” 

She’d been feeling absolutely terrible all day, which wasn’t at all out of the ordinary for a Monday following chemo, but this Monday had been particularly awful. She’d been unable to eat for almost forty-eight hours. Coming out of a meeting with Skinner, she’d been hit with a sudden dizzy spell, and had leaned up against the doorway to Skinner’s office for a moment. Mulder had noticed- nothing escapes him, especially not when she wishes it would- and had offered her his arm. She’d jerked away from him, annoyed with him for drawing attention to her illness outside of the privacy of their office (especially in front of Kimberly, the biggest gossip in the entire bureau).

She’d taken two steps and had blacked out- and, judging by the thudding pain in her head, had likely pitched headlong into Kimberly’s desk.

No, this week is not off to a very promising start.

“How long have I been out?” she asks, cracking one eye open just enough to get a glimpse of Mulder’s face. His expression is a mix of exasperation and tenderness.

“Around three hours,” he says. “Your doctor was here a few minutes ago.”

“What did she say?”

“Dehydration, exhaustion, low blood sugar,” Mulder rattles off. “Basically, you need to eat, sleep, and drink more.” He leans forward on his knees. “You know, everything I’ve been telling you for the past month.” Scully rolls her eyes. “I mean it, Scully. I know you don’t want to take any sick leave, but passing out in front of the boss’s office is _not_ the way to convince him that you’re fit to keep working.”

“It’s not like I’m not trying to eat, Mulder,” Scully says. “I just... I couldn’t even think about food all weekend. Everything I had in my apartment was too heavy, and I didn’t have the energy to go out to get something else.”

“And when I dropped you off on Friday?” Mulder asks. “You couldn’t have asked me to stop for something on the way?” 

“I had no idea what was or wasn’t in my fridge at that point,” she says.

“And on Saturday, when I called and asked if you needed anything? Or on Sunday, when I called and asked again? You couldn’t have asked me to bring you some soup?”

“Mulder,” she sighs, “it’s not your job to take care of me.”

“Yeah, it is, Scully,” Mulder says. “I’m your partner. I’m supposed to have your back.” 

“Bringing me soup on weekends does _not_ fall under the FBI’s definition of having your partner’s back,” Scully argues.

“Maybe not, but it falls under _my_ definition,” says Mulder. “Not to mention my definition of being a friend.” He looks sad, Scully realizes. Dejected, even. “I _want_ to help, Scully,” he says. “I wouldn’t be offering if I didn’t, and I promise, it’s not because I feel obligated. Just try and keep that in mind, okay?” She nods shortly. “Now,” he says, standing, “I’ve got some good news and bad news for you. Your doctor said she’ll agree to discharge you this evening.”

“That’s the good news?” He nods. “So what’s the bad news?” In answer, Mulder crosses to the corner of the room, retrieving a rolling stand with a covered meal tray atop it. He pushes it across the room, and when it’s in position in front of her, he whips off the cover, revealing what is quite possibly the most unappetizing dish of meatloaf Scully has ever seen.

“She’ll only discharge you if you eat an entire meal,” he says. “And before you ask, no, I will not eat it for you and claim that you ate it.” She glares at him.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” she says. With a sigh, she picks up her fork and takes a tiny taste of the meatloaf... but almost immediately, she throws the fork down in disgust. “Ugh, Mulder, it tastes like a shoe. I can _not_ eat that.”

“I had a hunch you might say that,” Mulder says. He reaches behind his chair, retrieving a brown paper sack. “Which is why, while you were still out of it, I ran around the corner and grabbed you this.” He takes out a large plastic container of chicken noodle soup, a box of soft, white rolls, and a bottle of ginger ale. “I thought it might have a better chance of staying down than anything the hospital could offer.”

“Mulder....” She’s touched. He can be the sweetest, kindest man in the world when he wants to be. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“That’s exactly the point I’m trying to make, Scully,” he says. “I _want_ to do it.” He looks at her critically. “But if you’re really that averse to accepting my help, I can always eat this myself and leave you to your shoe-flavored meatloaf.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” she says, making a grab for the container of soup. He places it in front of her, removing the top with a flourish and handing her a spoon. 

Scully doesn’t know if it’s the fabled healing properties of chicken soup, or the promise of being allowed to go home, or maybe just the company, but she manages to eat- and keep down- all of the soup, one of the rolls, and more than half of the ginger ale. She’s discharged, as promised, and Mulder drives her home.

“Can I get you anything before I go?” he asks, once she’s settled comfortably on her couch.

“No, Mulder, I’m fine,” she replies automatically.

“Scully.” His eyes are serious, his face full of concern. “Is there anything you need?” She meets his eyes... and for once, she manages to swallow her pride. Just for a moment.

“I don’t need anything, but... I was thinking I might watch a movie before I go to bed. You’re welcome to stay, if you want.”

“ _Scully_ ,” he says again. “Do you _want_ me to stay?” She looks up at him, biting her lip... and at last, she nods.

“I’d like that,” she says quietly. His face relaxes in a grin.

“So would I.”


	7. Chapter 7

Tom Colton, Mulder thinks, might be the biggest asshole in the entire FBI.

Well... maybe the second biggest, after Kersh. 

Or maybe the third biggest, after Kersh and Peyton Ritter. Whatever. Precisely where Colton ranks in the asshole hierarchy isn’t important. What is important is that Tom Colton is an asshole, and right now, he’s an asshole who won’t get out of Mulder’s face.

Four days ago, Mulder rang in the New Year with his lips pressed against Scully’s in the hallway of a hospital. Twenty-four hours later, he finished out New Year’s Day with Scully’s body pressed deeply into the well-worn leather of his couch. All he wants to do, right now, is sit in the seclusion of their basement office, pretending to work while staring surreptitiously across the office at Scully, reliving those unbelievable moments in his head and formulating a plan to make them happen again, as soon as possible.

But instead, he’s stuck in an endless series of inter-departmental meetings and mind-numbing presentations, and in between talks on better bookkeeping and lectures on applying statistics to predicting gang-related violence in the coming year, the main topic of conversation seems to be the report he and Scully turned in two days ago, detailing their New Year’s Eve exploits- the parts fit for public consumption, that is. Colton somehow seems to be part of every single conversation, and while he’s not nearly brave enough to say anything to Mulder directly, he seems to get a little thrill out of making derisive comments just loudly enough for Mulder to hear him.

Mulder and Scully duck out of the conference room briefly to visit the soda machine in the hallway. “My treat,” he says with a grin, holding out a crisp dollar bill, which she takes with a mischievous smile.  
“You sure do know how to spoil a girl,” she teases.

“Oh, just you wait, Scully,” he says. “You play your cards right, and soon, I won’t just be buying you sodas.” He gestures towards the snack machine. “Snickers, M&M’s, chips, even cheese and crackers when you’re feeling classy. You want it, it’s yours.” She grins up at him, shaking her head.

“I can’t wait to see where you take me for our first date,” she says. “McDonald’s, Burger King... maybe Taco Bell, if I’m in the mood for a more international flavor.” Mulder’s smile falters ever so slightly.

A date. Right. Should he have asked her out by now? What’s the protocol here? Normally, you meet a woman you like, you ask her out, you get to know her, and maybe then, if it all goes well, you sleep with her... but what’s the proper order in which to do things when you’ve unexpectedly jumped into bed together after knowing each other for seven years? Does she really want him to take her on a date, or is she only joking? He opens his mouth to ask, but she’s already heading back down the hallway.

“We’d better get back in there,” she says. “We wouldn’t want to miss the lecture on proper out-of-town car rental procedures.”

Mulder and Scully enter the conference room to find Colton at the center of a guffawing cluster of agents from Violent Crimes. He does not notice them come in.

“I mean, my New Year’s was plenty wild, don’t get me wrong,” he’s saying, to general amusement. “But to spend it fighting a bunch of aliens? _That’s_ how you ring in the new millennium!” The agents around Colton crack up.

“Colton, you might be the most ignorant idiot in the entire bureau,” says Scully, shaking her head in disgust. “Did you even _read_ the report?” Colton’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting to be confronted; normally, Scully’s policy is to ignore Colton until he gets bored and moves on. “You don’t even know the proper term for a re-animated human corpse, do you? It’s a zombie, not an alien. Know the difference.” She turns smartly on her heel and crosses the room to their seats, sitting back down in her chair with an air of absolute superiority. Mulder sinks down into the chair next to her.

He’s never been more turned on in his life.

“Scully,” he says softly, into her ear, “let me take you to dinner on Friday night.” She cocks an eyebrow at him.

“What, you mean on a date?” she asks. He nods. 

“No vending machines or fast food,” he says. “I promise.” She considers for a moment.

“All right,” she says. “I suppose if I can survive an attempted zombie apocalypse, a fancy dinner with you should be no problem at all.”


	8. Chapter 8

It’s their third try.

The first time, she’d been so hopeful, even knowing the odds were stacked against her- against them. Really, she’d been far more nervous about the prospect of asking him the dreaded question, of having what she sincerely hopes will be the most awkward and nerve-wracking conversation they’ve ever had- which is really saying something, for them. Her remaining concern had been for what would come after, for the inevitable conversation about what he wants, how involved he’d like to be, what he’d prefer to tell Skinner, to tell her family, to tell his mother. 

She’d barely stopped to consider that the procedure was likely to fail... and when it had, she’d consoled herself with the knowledge that she had enough money in her savings account for one more try. She’d put herself through it again- the doctor’s visits, the hormone injections, the discomfort, the stress- and he’d been right there with her, a staunch ally. Solicitous of her health, encouraging and reassuring her whenever her doubts had begun to overwhelm her, joking and flirting even more than normal to distract her from worrying.

The first time, Mulder had stayed in their basement office during the procedure, and later, when she'd learned that it hadn't taken, she'd informed him by phone. The second time, he'd driven her to the doctor's and waited in the car. He'd offered to come in with her, but she'd turned him down. There had still been no discussion regarding what they'll do if the procedure works- she hadn't seen any point in making any decisions when they didn't even know if it would be necessary- and with his potential involvement still undecided, she's not completely comfortable having him there.

Not to mention, she really, really doesn't want the first time he sees her flat on her back with her legs in the air to involve stirrups and a speculum.

When the procedure fails the second time, she tells him in the living room of her apartment, where he's been waiting for her. He'd sounded disappointed on the phone, the first time... but this time, she can see first-hand how badly he'd wanted it to work. 

"Never give up on a miracle," he says gently, holding her to his chest, and she's so moved, she comes within an inch of kissing him... but at the last second, she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth, instead.

"Mulder," she says, leaning against him, "it's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment... but this is it. I can't afford another attempt." He draws back and leans his forehead against hers.

"Let me pay for it this time, Scully," he says. Her eyes widen.

"I can't ask you to do that," she says. 

"You're not," he says. "I'm asking you to let me. Please. I really want this, Scully."

"I know you wanted to do this for me, but Mulder, you're not under any obligation to-"

"You're not hearing me, Scully," he says. "I'm not saying I want this _for_ you. I'm saying I want this _with_ you."

As his words sink in, she raises her gaze to his... and the love she finds there in his eyes blows her away. This time, she really _does_ kiss him, kisses him the way she's longed to for years, takes possession of that enticing lower lip that has been the star of so many of her fantasies.

They live out at least half of them in her bed that night.

And so here they are now, awaiting the results of their third try. Scully has a mild panic attack as they wait in chairs across from the doctor’s desk, convinced that this is futile, that it can’t possibly work.

“Why are we even doing this anymore, Mulder? Why are we putting ourselves through this again?” she asks, twisting her hands together in her lap. He reaches out and takes her hand in his own, squeezing it, bringing it to his lips.

“We’re doing it because if it works, it’s going to be amazing,” he says. “And if it doesn’t... there are other ways, Scully. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.” Behind them, the office door opens, and they both whirl to face the doctor as he enters the office and sits down at his desk, across from them.

And smiles.


	9. Chapter 9

Scully slams the connecting door between their motel rooms, effectively ending the argument, cutting Mulder off in the middle of his latest retort. It’s nearly midnight, she’s exhausted, and it’s clear that they won’t be agreeing on anything tonight. They’d gone back and forth for hours, until finally, she’d thrown her hands up in surrender.

“Believe whatever you want to, Mulder,” she’d said, whirling on her heel and heading for her room. “You want to base your entire investigation on the word of an unreliable witness who _admits_ to having been intoxicated at the time of the murders? _Fine_.” He’d yelled something at her retreating back, but by then, she’d fully checked out of the conversation.

She kicks off her heels, barely suppressing a moan of relief as her squashed toes are finally freed from their leather prisons, and rips off her suit jacket, flinging it onto the dresser. Her blouse, skirt, bra, thigh-highs, and underwear quickly follow suit, and she flops down onto the bed, completely naked. 

She knows she should shower, but she can’t quite bring herself to get up. It’s only by imagining how long it’s likely been since the bedspread has seen a laundry room that she convinces herself to at least turn the covers down, exposing sheets that smell reassuringly of detergent and fabric softener. She lies on the bed on her back, without pulling the sheets over herself, glaring up at the ceiling, at once wound too tightly to sleep, and too exhausted to get up and do anything.

He just makes her so _angry_ sometimes. He claims to have an open mind, but really, he mostly just zeroes in on the least plausible explanation available and hangs on tight, worrying it like a dog with a bone until either it’s finally ripped from his teeth when his theory is disproven... or, infinitely worse when it comes to his ego, he turns out to be right. He can be infuriatingly myopic sometimes, as unwilling to color inside of the lines as Scully is to abandon them. It’s a miracle they haven’t killed each other yet.  
Or fucked each other.

Because really... the feeling she gets in the pit of her stomach, when they’re an hour into an argument, both passionately defending their own viewpoints, their voices raising and their eyes fiery... really, when it comes down to it, that feeling isn’t all that different from the one she gets when she catches him gazing at her from across the office, or when she turns around quickly enough to catch him checking out her ass. And at least half of the time, mid-argument, the urge is there to grab him by his stupid, ugly tie and shut him up by shoving her tongue down his throat.

She glances, now, at her suitcase, standing sentinel by the bathroom door. She’s wound too tightly to sleep, but it’s far too late to go for a run... so really, there’s only one option. Dragging herself wearily off of the bed, she kicks the case onto its back and unzips it, digging into the pile of folded clothing until she finds a suspiciously bulky pair of gym socks. From within the folds of fabric, she retrieves her “on the road” vibrator. It’s smaller and quieter than her “home” vibrator, and she’s pretty sure she’s just about worn the damn thing out (it wasn’t an expensive one to begin with, and she and Mulder have a LOT of arguments on the road), but in a pinch, it’ll get the job done.

Back on the bed, she props herself up with a pillow or two and twists the dial at the base of the vibrator. For a moment, nothing happens, and she starts to panic- she’s just replaced the batteries, so the only reason for it not to work would be that it’s finally kicked the bucket- but after a few seconds, it sputters to life, and she sighs in relief.

Leaning back and closing her eyes, she gets down to business. She pushes “play” on her mental store of fantasies, calling up a well-worn favorite involving her, Mulder, and a broken-down car in the middle of nowhere. The fantasy varies a little every time she plays through it, but the salient details are generally the same- car breaks down, Mulder strips to his undershirt trying to fix it, fails, and somehow or other, ends up banging Scully from behind on the hood of the car. She’s just reaching her favorite part- the part where Mulder’s so impatient to be inside of her that he literally tears her skirt from her body- when she hears, as if from a distance, the sound of Mulder’s phone ringing in the room next door. She ignores it- whatever’s going on with the case, it can wait until morning- and she’s far too engrossed to pay attention to what he’s saying, or doing.

Which is why it’s a massive shock when he throws open the connecting door.

“Scully, you’re not gonna believe this-” But that’s as far as he gets before his eyes fall on the sight in front of him. Scully shrieks, and in a blind panic, scrabbles for the sheet to cover herself, and simultaneously flings the vibrator (still buzzing) across the room, where it strikes the wall with considerable force. It falls to the floor, where it buzzes once... twice... and finally falls silent.

“Do you ever _KNOCK_?” Scully shouts at Mulder, clutching the sheet to her naked chest.

“I did!” he protests weakly. “When you didn’t answer, I assumed you were in the shower!” He doesn’t seem to be able to tear his eyes away from her poor, abused vibrator, lying dead a few feet away from him. He moves as though to pick it up.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!” Scully shrieks, and Mulder jerks upright again. He looks over at her and immediately looks away, his face bright red.

“I, uh... I just got off the phone with the sheriff,” he says, the vibrator drawing his gaze again. “He says a fourth body’s been found, and it has the same marks as the first three.” Scully closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths, until she’s certain she can keep her voice level.

“And our suspect?” she asks.

“On the scene, stone-cold sober this time, and his story hasn’t changed,” says Mulder to the vibrator. “I’ll wait for you to get dressed, and we’ll head over.” A mischievous smile creeps onto his face. “Or if you want, I can wait a few extra minutes, if you and your friend weren’t finished.” She whips a pillow out from behind herself and hurls it at him.

“I’m pretty sure you broke it, so my _friend_ and I are permanently finished, thank you very much.” He looks over at her, his eyebrows raised.

“You’re the one who threw it, Scully!”

“Which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t scared the crap out of me, Mulder,” Scully says, flopping back on the bed and covering her face with the hand not clutching the sheets.

“I’ll buy you a new one, just stop pouting,” says Mulder. She lowers her arm slightly, peering at him through narrowed eyes.

“Really?”

“I promise,” he says. She sits up.

“One condition,” she says. “I go with you and pick it out.” He grins.

“You don’t trust me, Scully?”

“To know my taste in sex toys? No, Mulder, I do not. Now leave so I can get dressed, please.” Smiling and shaking his head, Mulder obliges, and Scully climbs out of bed, retrieving her discarded clothes and sliding back into them.

It makes a sort of poetic sense, Mulder purchasing her a new vibrator. If he’s going to persist in working her up- and he’s been doing it for five years, so he’s not likely to stop- the least he can do is help her relieve all that tension.

One way or another.


End file.
